


The Intermediate

by commodorecliche



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Psychics/Psionics, Falling In Love, Fate & Destiny, Fated meetings, First Meetings, Fortune Telling, Gen, M/M, Romance, liminal spaces, this is kind of welcome to night vale-esque tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-27
Updated: 2017-06-27
Packaged: 2018-11-19 15:09:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11315967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/commodorecliche/pseuds/commodorecliche
Summary: Jinae is the kind of place that, once upon a time, Jean had thought might hold a purpose - however fleeting or transient it might be. It's the sort of city Jean had hoped to be enraptured with, to get lost in, to feel the sidewalks support his feet as he walked through life with a disgustingly human desire for something bigger than himself.  Whatever that something may be.It's the sort of place that Jean had left home for - had left his job, his friends, his family - because of nothing more than a twisting feeling in his gut that told him that he should. He’d left it all behind just to work in a bookstore in an Out-There town he barely knew because something inside him had told him it was the right thing to do.After a year living in Jinae, Jean feels no more at peace than he had back in Trost. It feels like every night is a quest to find something without knowing what that something is. Will a chance encounter with a roadside psychic in the middle of the night give him the guidance he's seeking?





	The Intermediate

**Author's Note:**

  * For [flecksofpoppy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flecksofpoppy/gifts).



> okay okay so about 8 million years ago, [flecksofpoppy](http://twitter.com/flecksofpoppy) and [mjolklizard](http://twitter.com/mjolklizard) were talking about wanting a fortune teller/psychic au with a sort of weird/glowy/out-there aesthetic. soooo i started working on this piece approximately 7.5 million years ago in response to that thread, and i finished it approximately 20 minutes ago because that's just the kind of person i am. glad we're all on the same page. so yeah, this is the fortune teller/fated meeting AU that like two people asked for. 
> 
> now, all that said, i'm still fairly happy with how this came out, hopefully y'all will be too.

Jinae is an Out-Of-Time city. It’s the kind of city that teeters right on the edge of significance and irrelevance: people pass through to build memories, but eventually forget the place, despite all the pieces of it that have clung to their skin.

It’s a rest stop on the highway, an empty gas station with all its lights still shining and flickering, a back-lit yellow sign for the Waffle House that’s been missing letters for god knows how many years now. It’s an entity in its own right.

It’s a place that, once upon a time, Jean had thought might hold a purpose - however fleeting or transient it might be. Jinae is the sort of city Jean had hoped to be enraptured with, to get lost in, to feel the sidewalks support his feet as he walked through life with a disgustingly human desire for something bigger than himself.  Whatever that something may be. 

It’s the sort of place that Jean had left home for - had left his job, his friends, his family - because of nothing more than a twisting feeling in his gut that told him that he should. He’d left it all behind just to work in a bookstore in an Out-There town he barely knew because  _ something _ inside him had told him it was the right thing to do.

Maybe he’d expected too much, put too much hope upon this place’s shoulders. Because at the end of the day, Jinae is just a town. Maybe not like Trost was... no, not like Trost at all... but a town nonetheless. Jobs, and stores, and bills, and responsibilities… people living their lives each day like Jean lives his own; he can’t really even tell if it’s any different from the life he’d left behind. 

A year down the road from Trost, he can’t exactly say that he feels any more at peace in Jinae than he did in the bustling throngs of the city he’d once called home. Jinae feels like a place that’s teetering on the edge of forever, a city that could mean so much to him if he only could figure out how to find it. 

**::**

The rain drums unceasingly against the windows of his apartment. It’s a small, little abode where the sound likes to bounce off every wall, and he can’t exactly say that he hates the noise… But it’s been hours now and he can’t help but wonder if it’s ever going to stop. Jean flops a bit more onto his stomach and presses his face down into his pillow in a desperate attempt to find comfort before huffing a sigh and craning his head to look at the clock. The numbers are bright and teal and they’re making it very clear that it’s late and that he shouldn’t be awake.

He blinks slowly and savors the way the numbers blur for a split second each time he does: anything to let him dissociate from the fact that he isn’t meant to see these late hours. With a frustrated huff, he shoves his arms beneath himself and pushes up in bed onto his knees. Legs folded up beneath his body, the cool air of his bedroom leaves wisps of goosebumps across his flesh as he turns to stare at the window. With slow, purposeful movements, he unfolds his legs and steps onto the cold, hardwood floor before padding over to the window. Jean rests his forehead against the cold glass of the windowpane, breath leaving gentle puffs of fog across it, and stares emptily out into the wet darkness. 

Jinae is asleep, and he should be too, but telling himself that over and over isn’t going to magically make it happen. And so he stands at his window, a living, restless soul in the peaceful gloom, and wonders if this was how he thought things would be. He certainly hadn’t hoped for this, hadn’t hoped to be wayward and confused and grasping for a purpose he’d  _ thought  _ he might find here. 

Jean stands there silently for a few moments, eying the world outside his home with a sense of vain anticipation. He looks for some sort of movement or life that might let him know that he isn’t the only wakeful heart in this town: that other souls still pulse and live and look out into the darkness with that same desire he has for something they can’t name. 

But there’s nothing.

He’d never seen a city fall asleep the way that Jinae does each night. Trost would thrum and move throughout the late night hours, but here there’s a sense of quiet and stillness that does nothing but make him feel like the odd man out. Jean lifts a hand to the window pane and taps his fingernails against it, if only to see the world might respond 

But it doesn’t. 

Jean sighs and feels that same despondency creeping into his chest that he’s felt for far too many nights. 

With a final clack of his fingernail against the glass, he drops his hand and swallows the lump in his throat. He needs to get out of here. Needs to get out of this apartment, away from the confines of his bedroom, away from the clock that tells him he should sleep like the city sleeps. And so, without thinking, Jean scoops up a pair of jeans and a t-shirt that he’d discarded on the floor hours before, and dresses quickly. He slides into his boots, snags his keys, and strides out the door. 

**::**

As he trots through the rain out towards his car, Jean can’t help but think he probably should’ve grabbed a coat. But honestly, it’s not like anyone’s going to see him anyway; a little rain won’t hurt him. He slides down into his car and shuts the door after himself in a rush. The excess rain soaks into his clothes a bit more deeply, and Jean can only sit there and stare at himself in the rearview mirror. He shakes his head and watches a couple of droplets fling onto his dash and seats. 

He doesn’t start the car, not right away, almost afraid that if he does, the world around him might wake abruptly from the disturbance. But he knows that’s silly, and so he pushes the key into the ignition, only hesitating for a second before he turns it. The engine rumbles to life, and without another thought, he shifts into gear and backs out of the parking lot and onto the road. 

Jean just wants to drive. He doesn’t have much of a ‘plan’ in mind, per se… He hasn’t exactly thought about this drive too deeply. He just wants a little bit of breathing room between himself and the apartment. But with his foot on the pedal, eyes peering out into the steadily slowing rainfall, he unthinkingly begins to steer along his normal route around the city. 

Jinae isn’t exactly a big place; the back highways twist and wind their way through the different parts of town and the interstates circle and enclose the valley like protective barriers. Jean opts for the back roads and surface streets, if only for their late-night solitude. It’s an easy, quiet route, one that Jean has driven hundreds of times since he’s lived here, and he’s hoping that its ease and familiarity might lend him a little bit of peace. 

Aside from that, he drives without much purpose. It seems to be just enough to help him breathe. The rain has all but stopped, leaving nothing more than mist and fog in its wake, and he almost feels bad for disturbing it. The fog loves to envelope this place like a tarp, intent on shielding it from the outside world. Jean watches as it begins to settle, to lace its way over the tops of buildings, through the streets, around Jean’s vehicle, as though it were the last shred of privacy and peace the city could cling to. In a world where privacy is but a fleeting afterthought of day-to-day life, Jean can’t say he blames the place for protecting itself.

It’s late enough now that the street lights are all off, shop lights and homes all dark, welcoming in the nighttime with stillness. His headlights struggle with the darkness and it only gets worse as the fog begins to descend. But despite that, he still doesn’t want to turn the fog lights on, worried that they would pierce through the sleeping town too harshly. 

It feels rude, so he keeps them off. 

Eventually, as the surface streets begin to slip into the more isolated stretches of back road, time begins to slip away from him as well. The silence of his car becomes the silence of his thoughts. The road bends with the curve of his tires, shaping itself to his directions as he drives his route over and over again. He loses track of how many times he makes the same, familiar loop, but he figures it’s okay. 

This is what he wanted - to lose track, to unfocus, to unwind - so what’s a little lost time now and then? 

But it  _ is _ getting late - later than it already was when he had stared with wide, sleepless eyes at his bedside clock - and Jean knows it. He glances at his watch: the hands read almost 4 AM, and he sighs. His eyes focused on the darkened roads ahead of him, he decides, however reluctantly, that he should probably head back home. 

He prepares for the final loop, turning his car onto the last of the empty roads that wind himself back towards his apartment. But as he drives, something interrupts his all too familiar route… It’s something new in the darkness, jutting out just enough to catch his eye. 

In the darkness somewhere off to his right, a gentle, purple glow seeps through the haze and into his periphery. Jean furrows his brow as it catches his eye, glancing to his right to try and get a better look. He lets off the gas, letting the car coast for a moment until he brakes and slows almost to a stop. 

Far from the city center, this area is little more than an undeveloped stretch of back highway; it’s mostly trees and the occasional street light, all of which are off now anyway. He’s driven this route a hundred times and he’s hardly ever seen a shred of life around here, let alone hazy, purple glows in the darkness.

His body tilted forward over the steering wheel, Jean peers through the windshield and passenger side window. His eyes scan the area as the car creeps forward along the road, looking for something, for movement, for any source of life besides this random, colorful glow. But he doesn’t see anything except the haze.

Jean’s not exactly sure why he does it, but as gently as he can, he eases off the road. The gravel and grass crunch beneath his tires as he pulls off onto the shoulder, and he hopes he isn’t interrupting the silence. He shuts off the engine, absently turning on his hazard lights. Without its rumble, the night around him is quiet. Much quieter than it should be. No crickets, no animals, no crunching branches, no signs of life at all save for the purple light that had stopped him here in the first place. 

His hazard lights blink in steady rhythm and illuminate the dense fog that has surrounded his car with jarring flashes of yellow. And yet, they don’t even come close to washing out the neon, violet glow that permeates through the haze. 

He bites his lip and pushes the car door open, stepping out into the darkness with ginger footsteps. The air is heavy around him - the humidity the only trace left of the rain from earlier - and the night is still and silent. Jean feels more than a little lost at the moment. But even that doesn’t stop him from shutting the door and walking away from the road and towards the line of trees that seem to hide whatever the source of the light might be.  

There’s no side-street or driveway, at least not that he can see, hell, there’s hardly even a path leading away from the pavement and into the sparse line of trees at the roadside. Jean tries to peer through them, but he can see little more than the purple light as it slips through the pines and stains the fog. 

He feels a bit like a wayward creature in the blackest parts of the ocean, enticed and drawn in by the luminous glow of some predator, and yet, he just can’t turn away. Curiosity unfazed by the instincts inside him that tell him he shouldn’t be doing this, Jean presses onward.  

He knows he should just go back to his car, turn around and go home, like he’d originally planned to do. After living in Trost for most of his life, one would think Jean wouldn’t be enticed by bright lights shining in the dark, and that he might be instilled with some sort of self-preservation instinct… And yet, he feels little fear or tension, body filled instead with a feeling that tells him that if he  _ doesn’t  _ look a little more closely, he’ll never be able to forgive himself. And so, he holds his head high and determined, and strides forward past the line of trees towards the source of the light. 

Jean’s surprised that it only takes a few steps before the colorful glow begins to grow brighter and more defined, the shape in the fog becoming clearer as he advances. 

Just ahead of him, not but 35 yards from the road, stands a house... 

It’s a small and unassuming bungalow, bathed in neon light and purple-tinted fog from the sign in the window that reads:  

 

For a moment, Jean just stares at it. His eyes attempt to take it in, to reconcile the fact that he’s driven this route a million times before and has never seen this place. He supposes it could be new, but something tells him that it isn’t.

This place feels old and alien, strange and out of place, and yet still right where it’s supposed to be… as though it were a place he  _ could  _ have noticed before if he’d just been paying attention. 

But even  _ that  _ doesn’t feel quite right. 

Jean lets out a breath, eyes still focused on the building before him. He doesn’t get any closer, not just yet. In the quiet of the night, all he hears is the steady  _ buzz-click, buzz-click  _ from the neon sign itself.  

He should just go. There’s nothing for him here. And it’s late...

Jean takes a glance at his watch, if only to affirm to himself what he already knows about the time, but the face is fogged up. The hands and numbers are unreadable, and he tries his best not to think about that too hard. His hands fall back to his sides and his fingers twitch and curl up. 

He should go.

And yet he doesn’t. 

Instead, with his hands in tightened fists at his side and knots twisting deep in his gut, he presses onward. 

Aside from the bright, blinking sign hung in the window, the house looks dead, and that only becomes clearer the closer he gets. The windows are dark, the house unpainted and bland, nothing to decorate the porch or the lawn, nothing to tell him that someone actually lives or works here. He hadn’t even seen a mailbox. 

He doesn’t know why he moves any closer to this place. All possible danger aside, he doesn’t even believe in things like this - he never has.  And yet here he is, walking right up to the house and striding up the front stairs as though something might be there for him just beyond the threshold. 

Standing alone on the empty porch, Jean takes a slow, lung-filling breath to calm himself. He lifts his arm to knock on the door, but before his knuckles can even touch the wood, the door flings open. 

The gasp he lets out is little more than a startled reaction of the door opening, a not necessarily because of the person who had opened it. At least, that’s what he tells himself. But even so, he hadn’t exactly expected anyone to  _ be  _ here in the first place, and the woman who opens the door is certainly not who he had thought might greet him.  

She’s a surprisingly welcomed sight. She’s young - at least from what Jean can tell - soft-skinned with blonde hair and a set of blue eyes that could cut through him if they wanted to. She isn’t really dressed like he would expect either, no bangles on her wrists or jingling coins attached to intricately designed and colorful clothing. Instead, she wears a simple black shirt and jeans with a lilac shawl draped around her shoulders - the shawl honestly the only item more in line with all the cliches Jean knows about fortune tellers. 

“Hello,” She says, her voice nothing but calm normalcy, almost as though he weren’t just some random stranger standing on her porch in the middle of the night. 

It’s all a little strange. 

“I, uh…” Jean starts, unsure of how to respond to her apparent casualness, “Hi.” 

“Saw the sign, did you?” 

“I did…” 

_ Sort of, at least. _

A beat of silence falls between them. The woman’s eyes drag over Jean’s face, taking him in as best she can, but her expressions tell him nothing about what she might be thinking. 

“You got a look about you that tells me you might need to come inside?” the woman says after another second. 

It’s a loaded statement and Jean isn’t even really sure if he wants to know what look he’s got that makes her say that. 

“I don’t exactly know what I’m doing here...” Jean says as frankly as he can, “...and I’m not entirely sure what’s… going on right now?”

He feels like he should explain himself more, like he should have something more to say than that he doesn’t know what’s going on. But she doesn’t give him the chance.  

“That’s alright.” She hums, ‘Most people who find themselves here usually don’t. Why don’t you come in?” 

_ Turn around and walk away _ , Jean’s brain tells him

_ If you leave, you’ll regret it _ , his gut counters. 

The woman steps aside for him, and without letting himself think too much more about it, Jean steps forward past the threshold and into the house.

**::**

The inside of the house is… surprisingly normal. Going by the bareness of the bungalow’s exterior, he’d figured the interior would be just as devoid of personality. But instead, he’s met with… a normal house. The glow from neon sign in the window creeps its way to the entryway, bathing it in remnants of purple. There are a few trinkets and knickknacks here and there, books on tables and shelves, art hung on the walls…There is a strange lack of photographs around the house, however. No pictures of people, family, friends, or even herself as far as Jean can tell, but he tries his best not to think about it. 

Jean follows this woman - whose name he still doesn’t even know - through her home. She leads him towards the back and into a room with only a small, black table in the center of it, with two matching black chairs sat opposite each other. Once they’ve slipped in, his host doesn’t wait to shut the door behind them, before gesturing silently at one of the chairs: an unspoken request for Jean to take a seat. He does so with care and watches as she begins to move about the room. He watches her light a few candles and Jean is desperate to break the silence. 

“So, what, no uh, crystal ball or anything like that?” He asks with an awkward chuckle. 

She pauses for a moment and glances over to him with a grin, shaking her head. 

“No. No need for it, really. A bit antiquated, if you ask me.” 

The last candle lit, she snags it from off the shelf and dims the lights before making her way over towards Jean. She sets the candle down in the very center of the table, adjusts her shawl around her shoulders, and moves to take her seat across from Jean. 

“Uh… should I call you… Madame or something?”   
  
Another poor attempt to break the silence. 

“Oh, lord, please don’t,” she breathes as she settles down into the chair, “Annie will do just fine.” 

“Annie,” Jean murmurs to himself, feeling the name rest on his tongue. “...I’m Jean.” 

“Jean… That’s a nice name; it suits you. But names really aren’t that important, are they? What’s important right now,” her fingers gesture idly in the air, “is that… you are lost.” 

Annie leans back her chair, her hand eventually settling to her lap, and eyes Jean across the flickering flame of the candle. He honestly can’t read the look on her face, or the stare she gives him from the other side of the table, and he isn’t entirely sure how he feels right now. She had said it so matter-of-factly, and Jean can’t think of what he should say in response. 

“Well, it’s just… I’ve never…” He stammers, “I mean, I drive these roads  _ all  _ the time and I’ve never… seen this house before...” 

Annie smiles at that, more to herself than to Jean. Her eyes lose focus on him and she shifts her gaze away, opting to stare off at the far wall. 

“I’m here when I need to be.” She hums, turning her attention back to him quickly, “But that’s not the sort of lost I mean.”

“Then what kind of lost am I?” 

“Oh, _all sorts_. I mean, you wouldn’t be here otherwise.” 

With that, Annie leans forward and reaches out to take Jean’s hand. He startles a bit at the sudden contact - this whole place has him a bit on edge - but he doesn’t jerk away. She pulls his hand gently towards the middle of the table and unfolds his fingers to expose his palm. The soft glow from the candle illuminates the curves and creases of his hand. As Annie’s fingers trace the flesh, Jean feels more than a little exposed. 

“Everyone gets lost once in awhile, you know?” She mumbles, fingers beginning dancing patterns across his palm with focused intention. She doesn’t look up at him. “Most people find their way eventually. But some don’t. And you’ve been lost for a while. You were lost long before you came here.” 

“Before I came to you?”

“No… Since before you came to Jinae. That’s why you left Trost in the first place, wasn’t it? To find whatever you felt like you needed to find?” 

Jean pauses, mouth open just slightly at her words. 

“How do you know…”  _ where the fuck I’m from _ , is what he wants to ask. But he lets the sentence trail off, hoping she understands. 

And she does, Jean is sure of that, but she doesn’t answer him, giving him just a smile instead. 

“Do you know exactly what it is you were looking for? Why you left home? What you wanted to find?” She asks him plainly, her sharp blue eyes lifting from his palm to stare into his. 

“I uh,” Jean starts, but Annie doesn’t let him finish. 

“You don’t know. And you didn’t know when you left either,” she answers for him. 

Jean doesn’t protest or correct her. 

There’s a silence that falls between them, and Jean can feel her thin fingers still tracing each and every line across his palm and along his fingers, but she hasn’t broken her gaze with his own. And frankly, he’s a little nervous to be the one to break it. So he doesn’t. He keeps his eyes trained on Annie, and tries - but fails - to relax.

“...I was… looking for meaning, I guess?” He doesn’t mean for his voice to quake as much as it does. 

Annie scoffs a bit, and straightens up her back. She leans away from the table and back into her chair, but she keeps her grip on Jean’s hand. She twitches her nose a bit a stares off at the wall. 

“Eh, ‘meaning’...” She quirks, and Jean doesn’t miss the dismissive tone of her voice. “Everyone’s looking for  _ meaning _ , aren’t they?” 

The question is a bit coy; not so much because he feels she thinks it’s the wrong answer, but just the wrong answer for him. And maybe she’s right - maybe it isn’t the whole truth. If he’s honest with himself, he’s not even wholly sure what he’s looking for or why he’s here. 

“Everyone wants to find meaning, Jean. Meaning and love and fate and fortune. I guess I wouldn’t be in business if they didn’t, but is that what you really want to know? ‘Meaning’ and ‘purpose’, it’s all a bit relative anyway, don’t you think?” 

“I suppose so…” 

“Or were just hoping to know the future?” 

Jean isn’t quite sure if she’s still talking about why he came to Jinae, or why he’s sitting in her parlor. But he doesn’t ask for her to clarify. 

“I guess I wasn’t really hoping for anything,” Jean mumbles, glancing away from her. And it’s the truth. This whole night has been confusing and strange: there hasn’t exactly been much time for hopes and wants. If you’d asked him an hour ago if he would be sitting in this very spot, he’d have called you crazy. And yet, here he is. 

“If you woke up tomorrow, and you knew  _ exactly  _ what your purpose in life was, or the meaning of life in general, do you think you’d be satisfied?” 

The word tumbles from Jean’s mouth before he even has time to think. 

“No.” 

“So then, tell me:  _ what  _ are you looking for? What are you hoping to be?” 

Jean pauses; he knows what he wants to say, but the word feels tight in his throat. 

“...Happy.” He breathes. “I just want to be happy with-with myself and where I am. I want to feel… like I belong somewhere.”

Annie nods slowly, and her fingers squeeze his gently. There’s a sense of heaviness that settles in his chest; he feels as though perhaps she’d known what he might say from the start, but had simply wanted him to figure it out on his own. She shifts in her chair; the hand that isn’t already holding his comes to rest on the table, open and waiting 

“Home doesn’t happen by accident, Jean. We make it happen - where we go, who we meet, how we live. And home always happens in due time. And I think, at least I hope that by this point in your life, you’ve begun to understand that home isn’t always just a place.” 

Jean nods in agreement. If he’s learned anything from his move away from Trost, it’s that there’s more to home than just existing somewhere. What exactly that  _ more  _ is though… he hasn’t figured out. 

“Do you ever go stargazing?” Annie asks him suddenly. 

“Sometimes, I guess… if it’s clear out. You can see the stars a lot better here than in Trost, that’s for sure.,” Jean lets out an uneasy chuckle, his brow furrowing, a bit unsure of where she’s going with this. 

“They travel a lot, don’t they, through the course of the night? Just cruising their way across the sky.”  

Jean nods silently, brow furrowing slightly. 

“If you look at things from a large scale perspective for too long,” Annie continues, “it all seems to move a lot more than we’d like it too. Everything does when you just look at the big-picture; the sun rises, the day goes by, the sun sets. The night sky comes out, the stars travel, and then hours later, they’re gone -  _ poof _ \- replaced by yet another day.”

“Okay…” 

“But in a  _ moment  _ \- in one, brief, little instant in time - things tend to be a lot more still. For a moment, for an hour, those stars, those constellations, they all have their place. They all have their home above us, so to speak.” 

“I don’t know that I understand…” 

“You’re a big-picture kind of person, Jean, that’s pretty easy to tell,” Annie’s fingers drag across the lines of his palms as she speaks, “And I think that’s good for a lot of things, but not for what you’re looking for. The big-picture doesn’t mean much if you don’t look at the moments that make it up too.” 

Annie turns Jean’s palms over in her hands. She presses his palms down flat against the table, her own, small hands covering them. 

“We’re the ones who move, Jean. Not the stars. And sometimes we need to just be still. I think, slowly but surely, you have started to appreciate the stillness, to…. notice the  _ moments _ . And maybe Jinae has helped you do that. This town certainly does slow down at night - but you wouldn’t have found your way here if you hadn’t at least  _ started  _ to learn to be still.” 

“Annie, I…” 

Jean wants to say something - to protest or to question her - because there’s so much floating around in his head right now, that he’s starting to feel more confused now than he was earlier. But he can’t even think of what to say, and she doesn’t give him much chance to think it over.

“You can’t feel at home in the big-picture if you haven’t spent time with those still, little moments, Jean.”  

With that, she lifts her hands from atop of his and guides his back over with her fingertips. His palms face upwards and her thumbs drag slowly across the muscles and curves of each one. Jean watches her with curiosity as her eyes slip shut. 

“Home will come in due time, Jean. A constellation is going to find its home, it's moment, above you; you just have to remember to look up.”  

**::**

When Jean leaves, Annie refuses his attempt at payment. She walks Jean to the door and swats his hand when he reaches for his wallet, telling him not to worry about it. 

“You needed this; you wouldn’t have found me if you didn’t. So this one’s on the house.” 

“Not a very smart business model,” Jean jokes. 

Annie doesn’t reply at first. She smiles a knowing smile and pats his shoulder. 

“Just don’t waste it,” is the last thing she tells him before sending him on his way. 

The door closes before Jean can even ask her what she means. He still isn’t sure that he understands the few things she told him, but standing on her porch and staring at her front door and the blinking, neon sign in her window, he has a much deeper sense of calm than he’d had just an hour before. 

He walks away from her house, still bathed in the neon purple glow of the sign, and every step feels lighter and easier to take. Behind him, the buzzing sound grows fainter and further away. He walks through trees, walks until the buzzing is silent and the hazy purple light is gone, almost like it had never been there in the first place. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Jean wonders if her house is even still there. 

But that’s ridiculous.

Of course it’s still there. It’s a house. It has to still be there… 

Right? 

Jean cranes his head around, trying to stare back through the trees, to find some outline of her house in the darkness, but there’s nothing. At least nothing that he can see. 

He tries not to think about it too hard and presses onward until his car and the empty road greet him. 

His hazards are still flashing bright and yellow, but Jean notices immediately that his car is now bathed in the fluorescent glow of the streetlight above it, shining down on it like a spotlight. That hadn’t been on when he’d first pulled over. The only light on this road had been the ethereal glow of the neon sign drifting through the trees. Walking towards his car, Jean looks up into the oppressive white light above him as he moves beneath it towards the driver’s side. With his fingers on the handle of the door, Jean pauses and waits, waiting to see if perhaps this street lamp might tell him something he needs to know. 

It doesn’t - naturally - and Jean just sighs and shakes his head. 

Looking for guidance in a streetlight. Stupid. Jinae makes people do weird things, he supposes. Like visiting a psychic in the midnight hours out in the middle of nowhere. 

Jean opens his door and plops down into the driver’s seat. He shoves the key into the ignition and cranks it, but he’s met with only a pathetic rumble as his car’s engine tries but fails to start. 

“Oh, come on,” Jean groans, flicking the key again - a little rougher this time. He holds it a little bit longer, and the car whines as it tries desperately, but unsuccessfully, to turn over. 

Jean yanks the key from the ignition and tosses it into the passenger seat with an angry huff. 

“Un-freaking-believable.” 

He shoots a brief glance at his watch, and realizes that the face is no longer fogged up. There’s a moment where he wonders if his watch is broken - because unless he’s suddenly forgotten how to tell time, his watch is telling him that’s only been a couple of minutes since he first left his car. 

That can’t be right - he was with Annie for at  _ least  _ half an hour. 

By his watch’s time, it’s been less than five minutes. Jean arches his back away from the seat, fumbling into his pocket to yank his phone out, just to verify the time. Jean’s brow furrows as he stars at the screen: the numbers on his phone line up perfectly with the time on his watch. That can’t be right…. But it is. It has to be. 

He shakes his head, trying the speed dial for his insurance company to see if they could come give him a jump, but notes quickly that he’s got no bars. It’s No Man’s Land out here, it’s really no surprise the call won’t go through. 

Jean groans and plops a little more deeply into his seat, leg stuck out of the still-open driver side door. 

_ Well, shit. Now what?  _

If the time on his phone and watch is actually correct, then the sun won’t be up for a while still yet, and until sunrise, it’s unlikely anyone’s going to just stumble upon him. At this point, Jean figures all he can do is wait. 

He presses his head back against the seat and shuts his eyes with a long sigh. With his car door still open, he can still smell the evening scent of nature and asphalt, but the normal sounds he might have expected - crickets, frogs, the likes - are still notably absent. He tries not to think about that too hard. Sometimes, it’s easier just to accept this town for what it is, rather than try to reason it out. 

Jean cranes his neck a bit to stare up through the moonroof. He’d like to see the stars, to at least try to take Annie’s advice. Because she was right - he does stargaze sometimes, but never with intent. Never with solitary purpose that might allow him to hone in on the singular moments of universe that he perhaps should be paying attention to. 

He’d like to see the stars - but there are none. Not that he can see, at least.

The bright and ugly fluorescence of the street lamp above him bleaches out the rods in his eyes, all but ensuring that even  _ if  _ there were stars above to look at, Jean wouldn’t be able to see them anyway. He huffs and straightens his neck back to normal, looking ahead at the dark void of the road ahead of him. The quiet clicking of his hazard lights keeps on in rhythm. And he wonders for a brief moment if the sun will ever come up. 

He’s sure it will. But there’s nothing to do now but wait. 

**::**

Jean doesn’t have to wait for long. He’s still not entirely sure if time is a consistent thing out here, but if he had to guess, he’d wager he’s only been sitting here for a few minutes when a pair of headlights begin to creep up behind him. 

He peers at them in his rearview mirror, watching as they approach and begin to slow down, pulling into the shoulder behind him and parking. The headlights stay on as a figure - lean, lithe, and masculine from what Jean can see of the stranger’s silhouette - gets out and makes their way to his car. 

Whoever it is, Jean just hopes that they mean him well. In Trost, a stranger approaching your stalled vehicle in the middle of the night would mean nothing but trouble. But in Jinae? It’s hard to say. 

Jean stays in the driver’s seat, but doesn’t move to close his door. He knows he probably should, just on the off chance this stranger isn’t here with the best intentions, but something inside him tells him not to. Something inside him, in a soft, feminine voice like Annie’s, tells him to let this person come. Tells him to wait, to anticipate this moment. 

And so he does. 

Even though his door is cracked open, the stranger still taps on the driver’s side window as a courtesy. Jean supposes it’s to announce his presence, as if the high beams illuminating the cab of his car wasn’t enough to let Jean know he was here. But still, it’s a nice enough gesture. Jean can’t see his face - the tint on his windows too dark and the angle of the cracked open door not giving him a view of this stranger at all. But he taps on the window once again and speaks tentatively. 

“Hi…. Are you okay? I uh, I saw your hazards on… I wanted to make sure you were alright.” 

It’s a guy - or at least it sounds like one, judging by his voice. It’s deep, but it’s still approachable and soft, and he seems sincere in his concern for Jean’s well-being. 

“Yeah, hi there, I’m okay,” Jean replies, pushing the door open a little further. The stranger steps away from the door to give him room and Jean steps out and stands fully, finally turning to look at the good Samaritan who has stopped to check on him. 

“Just some car trou-,” Jean starts, but his voice trails off mid-sentence as he finally gets a look at this guy’s face. 

He’s young - no older than Jean - with gentle features and a shaggy undercut. His hair is dark brown, as are his eyes, and they glimmer a little in the illumination of the headlights and streetlamp. His skin is warm like honey, ethereal and inviting, and it’s littered, absolutely littered with freckles. 

Striking freckles, splattered across his cheeks like... like...

“Stars…” Jean mumbles, his eyes fixated on the intricate constellations that line this stranger’s face.  

The guy furrows his brow and cocks his head a little. 

“Pardon?,” he asks, and Jean shakes his head, jerking himself back to reality for a moment. 

“Uh, sorry. Yeah, my car won’t start.”

The guy smiles then - a radiantly white smile that drips with sincerity and openness. 

“Well, it’s lucky I happened by then, huh? Not many people come out this way.” 

Jean nods, still transfixed on this man’s face, but trying his best not to stare. 

“Yeah, lucky….” 

“I’ve got some jumper cables, if you wanna try that?” 

“Worth a shot.” 

Jean follows him as he walks to his trunk and digs around for the cables. 

“I’m... I’m Jean, by the way.” 

“Jean,” the man repeats over his shoulder as he heads to the trunk. He pops it and starts digging around in it blindly, moving god only knows what out of the way to get to whatever cables he thinks he has. When he speaks again, his voice muffled, his body still half-hidden in the boot.

“That’s a nice name. Is it French?” 

“Yeah, it is,” Jean pauses for a second and clears his throat, “So uh, what’s your name?”

The stranger pops his head back out of the trunk, jumper cables clutched in his hands, and Jean can’t help but grin at the way his hair is mussed now. 

“Got ‘em! I’m Marco.” 

“Marco, of the…. Polo variety?” Jean asks. 

Marco shoots him a look - he’s sporting a coy grin on his lips and a playful gleam in his eyes. He bites his lip and nods. 

“That’s funny,” Marco starts, “Really, though. I hadn’t heard that before.” 

Jean’s brow sinches. 

“Wait, seriously?” 

Marco chortles. 

“No, not at all. Literally everyone says that or some variation of that to me when they learn my name.” 

Jean’s face falls. 

“Oh…” 

Marco takes a step closer, moving himself into Jean’s space, and smiles down at him. 

“But it  _ is  _ still funny,” Marco pats Jean’s bicep happily and heads towards the stalled car with the jumper leads. Jean watches him go, biting his lip as he holds back a grin and takes a soft step to follow his new companion. 

“Stars, huh…” Jean mumbles to himself as he walks. 

**::**

The two of them make quick work of reconfiguring the position of their cars so the hoods are close together. With the leads hooked up to the batteries, they work to hopefully give life to Jean’s tired vehicle. But no amount of revving Marco’s engine and waiting for charge to build seems to help. Every time they think they’ve got it, they’re met with the same desperate, failing whine as Jean’s car tries its best to turn over and start. 

After a while, Jean hears Marco let off the gas of his car, his engine quieting back to idle as he steps out and moves to stand by Jean’s car. Jean, still sat in the driver’s seat, tries one last time to crank the engine, but it just isn’t having it. 

The car groans but doesn’t start, and it’s the same song they’ve been listening to for a while now. 

“Well, I hate to say it, but I don’t think this baby’s startin’ up tonight,” Marco tells him, leaning on the edge of the open driver-side door. Jean silently nods his agreement and pulls the keys from the ignition. 

Marco steps back from the door as Jean slides out of the car. He closes the door behind him and leans heavily against it. It’s been a long night, but Jean is really only just starting to feel the actual weight of his weariness. Jean lets out a yawn and checks the time on his phone - it’s ticking on now, still slow as can be, but at least progressing, and he knows that sunrise should at least be happening some time in the next hour or so. 

“Man, you look a bit tuckered,” Marco tells him, stepping in close and angling his head down to look at Jean’s face better. 

Jean nods quietly, holding back another yawn, before lifting his gaze to meet Marco’s.

Jean doesn't mean to stare - because it's rude and weird to just stand there and stare at someone, especially a stranger. Jean's mother taught him better than that. But at the same time, he can't seem to tear his eyes away from Marco's face. There's something about him, something about the warmth in his eyes, the camber of his jawline, the playful quirk of his grin... There's something about the way his freckles dot his cheeks like the curve of Gemini dots the night sky; Jean just wants to look at him for a minute longer. He just wants to stay in the moment for a little bit longer. 

But he doesn't get to. 

Instead, Marco gestures idly towards his own car. 

"You live in town, right? Come on, I'll give you a ride home. You can call a tow truck or something tomorrow. But I think you and I both need some rest, ya know, before it's _actually_ tomorrow, at least." 

"You don't mind?" Jean asks him, suddenly feeling as though he were imposing, in spite of all that Marco has already done for him. 

"Not at all. I gotta head back into town anyway." 

Jean shoots him a soft grin and nods, a silent thank you hanging in the air between them. He makes sure that his car is locked before following Marco to his own and sliding into the passenger seat.  

Marco cranks up his car, eases it away from Jean's, and pulls out onto the road, heading into the evening darkness. 

_The sun is bound to come up eventually_ , Jean thinks for a brief moment, but like most of what has happened to him this evening, he just decides that the best way to think about all of this is to just not think about it too hard. 

It doesn't matter anyway.

It's comfortable here, riding in the passenger seat of Marco's car. Marco - a man he's known for less than an hour, but who somehow captivates his attention like no one ever has before. There's a twist in his gut that tells him to keep looking, to keep existing, to simply remain in this moment for as long as he can. 

Jean's eyes stay trained on Marco's profile. He's focused on the road, silent and still as the car cuts through the haze and pitch. Even from the side angle, even in the darkened interior of the car, Jean can still somehow make out all the little freckles that are splattered across Marco's cheeks. They stand out so notably, so pointedly that Jean might be content to stay right here and simply look at this man for as many moments as he would allow. 

But Marco quickly notices Jean's gaze. He flicks his eyes away from the road and towards the passenger seat a couple of times before forcing out a nervous chuckle. 

"What is it?" Marco asks him, almost as though he's worried Jean is judging him for something. 

"Nothing. Sorry, I don't mean to stare. You just... you have a lot of freckles." 

Marco lets out a flustered huff and shrugs. 

"Yeah I mean, they're kinda ugly, I know..." 

"No, no. God, no, they aren't ugly at all," Jean tells him quickly, not wanting Marco to get the wrong idea, "They're... really nice, actually. Kind of like stars..."

Marco doesn't reply immediately, but Jean can see him bite his lip, just barely keeping a tiny smile at bay.

"Oh," is all he says. 

They ride in silence for a few more minutes, Jean's eyes still focused on the gentle line of Marco's profile as they traverse the curving loop around the evening city. He wonders if Marco knows where he's going - he hadn't exactly told him where he lived. 

Maybe it doesn't matter. 

Maybe they'll get to that moment when they get to it. 

“So,” Jean starts, interrupting the stillness that had settled in the vehicle, “You said a lot of people don’t drive out that way, huh?” 

Marco nods. 

“Yeah it gets pretty desolate out there. Like I said, it was lucky I happened by.”

“Mmm,” Jean hums, nodding even though he’s sure Marco doesn’t see the gesture, “So… what brought you out there?”

Marco doesn’t respond immediately. He cocks his head and gives a halfhearted shrug. 

“Ah, it’s silly… But sometimes I just like to go out and drive through there… It helps sometimes if I’m feeling… out of touch, I guess? That’s dumb, I know.” 

There’s a breathy laugh on his tongue as he smiles and shakes his head. 

“Mine’s worse,” Jean tells him. 

“Oh yeah? Why were you out there?” 

“Similar reason as you, but this time I found a psychic,” Jean laughs at how silly his own story sounds, despite its veracity. 

_ That  _ gets Marco’s attention. He flicks his gaze away from the road to lock eyes with Jean for a moment. He’s all furrowed brow and piqued curiosity. 

“A psychic? Where?” 

“Where I was stopped,” Jean tells him honestly. 

“...Hm.” 

“Why ‘hm’?” 

“No, it’s just… there’s nothing out there, you know? Literally nothing... No houses, no buildings, _nothing_...” 

“Hm,” Jean echoes. 

_There has to be_ something _out there,_ Jean wants to say, but he doesn't. He stays quiet, as does Marco. And maybe that's best. Maybe it's just easier not to press that line any further, that question of what is or isn't out there. 

The two of them share a few more moments of silence, and Jean alternates between watching Marco’s profile, and watching the road intently. They’ve already made it back onto the normal roads of town, and the haze has started to clear. It isn’t light yet, but something tells Jean that the sun will come up the moment he gets home. 

And he doesn’t want to go home just yet. He doesn't feel like seeing the sun just yet. 

"Jean?" Marco asks suddenly in the silence. 

"Yeah?"

“You said my freckles look like stars?” 

Jean pauses and nods. 

“Mhm.” 

“...And you… _like_ stars?” Marco inquires further.

“I _do_ like stars,” Jean tells him plainly.  

“Hm.” 

Jean isn’t sure how to read Marco’s silence, but there’s a gentle upward quirk to Marco’s lips, illuminated just faintly by the streetlights of the city. And Jean figures that’s a good enough interpretation for him. 

“What’s uh, what’s your address?” 

Marco’s voice is flatter now, a bit more dull as they weave through the city, winding their way back to the present whether they like it or not. 

“You know,” Jean tells him, “I dunno if I want to go home yet.” 

Marco spares a glance at him and tilts his head in understanding. 

He smiles. 

“Ya know, Jean… I don’t know if I want to either." 

**::**  


**Author's Note:**

> As always, thank you guys so much for reading. It's been a while since I've posted a good-length jeanmarco piece like this, so it feels good to do so again. I hope y'all enjoyed this. Comments are always, always appreciated! 
> 
> I also have a [tumblr](http://commodorecliche.tumblr.com) and a [twitter](http://twitter.com/commodorecliche) \- feel free to check me out there.


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